Family Ties
by Horsefeathers103
Summary: Holmes and Watson embark on a case that touches Holmes personally.
1. Uneasy Pacing

A/N Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and other associated characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

* * *

Holmes and I lived together for many years, and there are stories that, up until now, I have been unable to relate to the public. But since time has passed, some of these cases and adventures have become de-classified, so to speak. This particular case has weighed heavily on my mind since it was closed, and I feel it must be shared with the public.

Holmes and I had known each other for over ten years, and most of those years, we had spent living together in the apartment at 221B Baker Street. It had come to be that I could discern what type of mood Holmes was in by the way he looked, smoked, or even how he paced. I had become accustomed to the fact that he would spend entire nights, awake and pacing in his room, trying to sort out facts and thoughts in his head. But there was something different on the night in question. I awoke in the early morning hours, before the sun had risen, to the sounds of Holmes pacing in his room, which was adjacent to mine. This would not have been so unusual, had it not been for the _way_ that he was pacing. It was a sort of nervous, feverish step, and it was not something that I had heard often. Holmes was not a man who was easily shaken, and I was unsure as to what could possibly be bothering him this much. I pulled the bed-clothes off and arose to see what was troubling my friend.

I moved slowly, trying not to make a sound. I did not want to disturb him, for fear I might interrupt a train of thought that he was following. As I neared his door, I noticed it was slightly ajar. I looked through the opening and found my friend in a piteous state. His tall, lean figure seemed to be withering away before my very eyes. His cheeks were sunken in, more so than usual, and it looked as though he hadn't eaten or slept in days. He hadn't shaved in equally as long, and his appearance was that of a man at death's door. His normally piercing gray eyes had become dull and lifeless. Fatigue and anxiety were weighing heavily upon him, and I feared the worst.

I moved slightly to get a better look at him, and he must have heard me, for he collapsed into a chair and motioned me into the room. I slowly opened the door and approached my friend.

"My God, Holmes, what is troubling you? You look as though your very life hangs upon the solution of your present case."

"I fear it might." His reply was quiet, almost a whisper.

As I looked upon his face, I noticed that he was not returning my gaze. His eyes were upon the floor, and I thought I saw a hint of a tear in the man's eye. I was startled by this discovery, for Holmes rarely showed emotion, and save for one or two occasions, I had come to accept the fact that he was devoid of emotions entirely. Not more than a moment after I noticed the glisten in his eye, he leapt out of the chair, shouting.

"I should have seen this coming! I should have been able to do something!" His energy spent, he collapsed back into the chair. I was shocked to see such a vehement rage come from such a broken man. I walked over towards him and seated myself on the corner of his bed. There I waited for him to tell me what was causing him such distress. A good portion of time passed before he even moved, and when he did, it was only to stretch out his long legs, and cross them. Then came the familiar steepling of his fingers, and I knew he was ready to voice his current situation. When he spoke, it was very quietly, and I found myself leaning towards him in order to hear what he was saying.

"Something awful has happened Watson, and I fear that I am at an absolute loss as to how to remedy the situation." He paused for a few moments, to compose himself, then he went on. "Mycroft has been abducted."


	2. Aidez

A/N Again, I do not own any of these characters. They all belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

* * *

The blunt statement caught me entirely by surprise. I knew that something serious had to be bothering the man, but I was expecting it to be a case that had touched a particular nerve, not the abduction of his brother. "Holmes, is there nothing you can do?"

"At this point, there is absolutely nothing. I do not know where he is or who has taken him captive." He paused again, and I waited for him to talk the case through in my presence, as was his practice. I did not have to wait long, for he stood and began to pace as he continued his narrative. "As you know, Watson, Mycroft is a very powerful man. In his mind, he holds knowledge that could overthrow governments or even start wars. He's done a relatively decent job of keeping himself hidden from the public eye, but I knew it was just a matter of time before someone found him. Although he is my senior by seven years, I have always kept an eye out for him as he has for me. But now he has been taken and I know not how to retrieve him.

"Mycroft is a strong-willed man and I am not afraid that he would willingly share his secrets. But I am not stupid, and I know that Mycroft is human and he has his weaknesses, just as you and I do. All his captors need to do is discover those weaknesses and exploit them, and Mycroft will be as clay in their hands. Watson, if I am unable to find him, it could mean the end of the British Empire as we know it. God, Watson, how could I have let this happen?"

"Holmes, you could not possibly have known that someone was planning to abduct your brother-"

"You don't understand Watson; I have connections that reach throughout the criminal world. If someone is planning something this significant, I generally have a vague idea beforehand. But I knew nothing of this. Either this is the work of someone new, or of someone who has been so far removed from the criminal world so as to be forgotten…" As his words faded into unintelligible mumbling, his pacing increased in fervor. I could tell from the look in his eyes that something had come to him. After a few minutes, he abruptly stopped pacing and stood motionless before me, staring at his window as though the answer was just on the other side of the closed curtains. "Watson, there is only one man who could possibly have the audacity, perspicacity, and resources to perform such a feat."

I tried in vain to follow his train of thought. I knew that there could only be one man who fit the description that he had put together. "But Holmes, I thought..."

He looked me in the eyes, and I could see that there was a spark of life there now, where there was none before. "What did you think Watson, that he died at Reichenbach? If I'm not mistaken, you thought that I had died at Reichenbach as well. Yet here I am before you. And I firmly believe that Moriarty is alive and well, planning something that could bring England to her knees. And at the center of it all is my brother, Mycroft, an unwilling agent in a villainous crime." He had resumed his pacing, and my head swam as I tried to sort through the information that my friend had disclosed to me.

"Holmes, if you'll excuse me for asking, how can you be so sure that Mycroft is missing in the first place?"

Holmes slowed his pacing until he had stopped. He sighed, and lowered himself into his chair. "I fear that I have left out some key information in my haste to work through my thoughts. I apologize. As to your question, I am absolutely positive that my brother is missing.

"I had made plans to have dinner with Mycroft yesterday evening. We were going to meet at Michael's so that we might discuss various cases, voice ideas to one another, and have a friendly chat. We get together every so often, and in doing so, we remain abreast of issues and problems that could possibly arise in the future. Mycroft is a man who keeps a very tight schedule, so I became uneasy when he was late in arriving. I waited at Michael's for three hours, Watson, and he never arrived. And then, when I returned to Baker Street, I found a telegram awaiting me. It was sent by Mycroft. He apologized for missing dinner, and went on to say that something had come up and he was unable to avoid it." Here he paused to see if I was making the connection, which I obviously was not. "Mycroft very rarely sends telegrams. In fact, I can only recall one instance where he sent me a telegram, and that was in a very urgent situation. His tendency is to write letters. He finds them to be better representations of himself, and whatnot."

"But Holmes, what if he didn't have time to write a letter?"

"The telegram does not portray the sense of urgency that would be required for him to avoid a letter. In instances like this, he tends to write short letters to explain himself, and as to the matter of getting the letters sent, Mycroft has his ways of getting things to me.

"But what bothered me the most was not the fact that it was a telegram, not a letter, which awaited me. What bothered me the most was how he signed his name. He signed it Mycroft Aidez Holmes." Again, he paused to see if I was making the connection, but I was not. "Watson, Mycroft's middle name is Sherrinford. 'Aidez' is a French form of the word for 'help'."

* * *

A/N If you read this and you liked it, let me know. It makes me smile when people take the time to review. And God knows, with the classes I'm taking, I need all of the smiles I can get. And if you didn't like it, let me know and I'll see if I can improve. 


	3. Shattered Glass

He waited as the information sunk in. If what Holmes was saying was true, then Mycroft was in grave danger. Mycroft was an intelligent man, superior to Holmes himself in that aspect, and he knew that Holmes would easily decipher the nuances in the telegram. But how was Mycroft able to send the telegram if-

Holmes interrupted my thoughts with an answer to my unfinished and unspoken question. "My guess is that Mycroft informed his captors that he was to have dinner with me in the near future and that his absence would warn me that something was amiss, thus putting me on the scent early in the game. His captors most likely allowed him to send the telegram with the hopes that it would put me off. This leads me to believe that Moriarty was not present at the time of my brother's abduction. Moriarty would have overseen the writing of the telegram, and would not have been fooled by the French, which was what alarmed me most." He arose from his chair and began to pace again, mumbling things that I could not interpret. He remained in this state for a few minutes, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was sitting merely inches from where he was pacing. Suddenly, he stopped pacing and spoke. "Watson, I must go out now and see what I can discover regarding Mycroft's whereabouts. I recommend that you go back to your bed and try to sleep for a few more hours. I'm going to need you well-rested and alert in the days ahead."

"But Holmes, it must be before three in the morning. What could you possibly hope to accomplish at such an hour?"

When he spoke, it was softly, and with resignation. "Whether or not I accomplish anything is unimportant. I am unable to sleep while my brother is in danger, and I may as well put the time to some use. Good night, Watson. I will wake you in the morning." And with that, he left me sitting on his bed, hopelessly lost in thought.

I arose and slowly made my way to my bedroom. I tried in vain to sleep, but I found it very hard to still my racing mind. Holmes' brother was missing and the fate of England rested upon his ability to find him. I envisioned a future where England had crumbled and evil ran rampant in the streets. I quickly shook the thought from my head and told myself that Holmes would be able to find Mycroft. He had to.

After what seemed like an hour, I finally fell into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning as visions of the future flitted across my mind's eye.

I awoke in the morning to the sound of shattering glass. I leapt out of bed, hastily dressed myself and ran out into the sitting room to see what had happened. What I saw caused me to stop short. Holmes was leaning over the shattered remains of one of his chemistry experiments, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, his head in his hands, and his left forearm bleeding freely. It was a sight that sent chills down my spine. The man that I had come to know and love was losing hope. As I stood staring at him, it occurred to me that the wounds in his arm were rather vicious, and that I would have to tend to them soon. But I did not want to startle him in his present state. So I made my way to the kitchen where I poured a tall glass of brandy. On my way back into the sitting room, I stopped by my room to grab my medical kit.

I approached Holmes as if he were a wounded animal. I was unsure if he would welcome my presence or perceive me as an intruder. When I neared him, I set my medical kit down and placed my hand gently on his shoulder as I offered him the glass. With a heavy sigh of resignation, he took the glass. I guided him to a chair, where he collapsed. I waited for him to drink the brandy, and then I began to tend to his arm. He did not so much as flinch while I cleaned the glass from his wrist and forearm. Only after I cleaned and bandaged his arm did he begin to speak.

"I have never felt so insignificant and incompetent in my entire life. All that I was able to uncover this morning was that Moriarty was indeed the one who oversaw the abduction of Mycroft. I found nothing regarding his whereabouts or his condition. For all I know, he's lying dead somewhere."

I could sense the frustration in his monotone voice, as well as see it in his vacant expression. Holmes had been wrong in some of his prior cases, but at least he had had something to go on, some clue to lead him to his erroneous conclusions. Now, he had nothing. He had no clues, and no ideas. And this was the time that it mattered most.


	4. Violin Music

A/N Conan Doyle owns all of these characters...

* * *

Holmes stood and began to pace as he spoke. "I have one last chance of finding information. And it is a slim one at best. I have asked all of my contacts if they would go searching for any indications as to the location of my brother. This is risky for obvious reasons. If anyone finds them to be too inquisitive, dangerous situations can arise. But I told my contacts to be careful, and I can only hope that they will find me something, anything."

It pained me to see Holmes in this condition, even more so, because there was nothing I could do to help at this point. He was a man of action, and he had done all he could. If this were one of his average cases, this would have been the point where he would put the problem aside as if it never existed, and go about life as normal, all the while, waiting for a new development. But he was unable to put this problem out of his mind.

He finally stopped pacing and collapsed back into his chair. He sat there for a few minutes, as though he were deciding what to do with himself, until he reached for his violin case and removing the instrument, began to play an eerily mournful and dispiriting piece.

I sat for a few minutes and listened to the music he was playing, but soon it became too much for even me. I wanted to do something to help him, but I could think of nothing. I finally came to the conclusion that some fresh air might do the both of us some good.

"Holmes, why don't you join me for a walk? The fresh air might do you some good."

He did not say anything. He merely looked up from his violin, and I could tell from his expression that he did not intend to join me. So I found my coat and headed out the door. I had no intended destination, I just needed to clear my head and organize my thoughts.

When I came back from my brief walk, Holmes was still playing an eerie melody. His eyes were closed, but I knew that in his mind he was desperately trying to find a clue that he had possibly overlooked. I seated myself across from him and became lost in thought myself. For hours we sat there, neither one of us speaking or moving, save for Holmes playing his violin.

Finally, it became dark and Mrs. Hudson approached me, quietly asking if we were to eat dinner. I realized that I had not eaten that day, and I guessed that Holmes had not eaten since the disappearance of his brother, so I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring a tray in to us.

Shortly thereafter, she brought the tray in and set in on the table beside me. Holmes did not once acknowledge Mrs. Hudson's presence, and I was sure that he would not acknowledge the food, either. But I tried to get him to eat, regardless.

"Holmes, you really should eat. You won't be of any help to your brother if you die from malnutrition. Please, eat something." He made no effort to respond. So, I placed some biscuits on a plate and arose from my seat to set the plate on the arm of his chair. I continued on to my room, to settle in for the evening, but before I closed my door, I turned to look back at Holmes. I could not see his face, for the back of his chair was facing me, but I heard him stop playing and put the violin down. Then I saw his long arm reach over towards the plate. Satisfied, I returned my attention to my room and shut my door.


	5. Contact

A/N Doyle owns all of these characters. I am merely borrowing them.

* * *

Five days passed, and there were no new developments. Holmes was working himself to death. Every night, and most of the days, he had been out trying to find some form of information regarding his brother, but he was unsuccessful. No one seemed to know anything, and Holmes' determination was wearing thin. I feared that if he was unable to lay hands on some sort of clue in the near future, he would not last for more than another week.

Late in the afternoon on the sixth day, Holmes returned to Baker Street dressed as a poor crippled beggar. I had seen this particular disguise before, so I recognized him rather quickly. His six foot frame was painfully hunched over, covered in layers of filthy rags, and he held a crooked cane for support. His cheeks were hollowed out and the skin of his face was taut over his high cheek bones, and his eyes were glazed over with a haunted look. I waited for him to return to his old self and I was sorely disappointed by what I witnessed. He slowly lifted the rags off of his back and placed them on the coat rack. Then he hung the cane up beside them. But nothing else changed. Although he stood straighter, his spine still retained a slight hunch. I watched his face and waited for his cheeks to fill out and his eyes to return to normal, but they did not. The haunted look remained, and the bones in his face were so defined, that it looked as though they would protrude from his flesh at any moment. There was nothing left in the man, both physically and mentally.

I could not bear the sight of him, so I quickly left the apartment mumbling something about needing some fresh air as I passed him.

No sooner had I left the front step than I was approached by a young lad of about twelve years of age. He reminded me of one of the Baker Street Irregulars that Holmes used in various cases.

"Are you Dr. Watson?"

"Why, yes, I am."

"I have a letter for you." The boy looked around nervously, as though he thought he was being followed. I invited him inside, in an attempt to ease his anxiety, but he politely refused. "No thanks, sir, I'm afraid I must be going now." And with that, the boy ran off and disappeared around the corner. Something about the letter gave me an uneasy feeling, so I decided to return to the apartment and open it there.

I had only been outside for a few minutes, and in that time period, Holmes had picked up his pipe and had even succeeded in filling the room with a light haze. I placed the letter on the table and went across the room to open a window. When I came back to open the letter, I found that it was no longer where I had put it. I looked about frantically, trying to find the letter the boy had given me. I turned to ask Holmes if he had seen it, and I found that he had it in his hands. He had put his pipe down and was analyzing the envelope, looking for clues that would be missed by the average eye.

"Interesting. This envelope is almost entirely clean, save for a few smudged fingerprints, which no doubt came from the messenger boy. There is no aroma, no dirt, nothing. There are no distinguishing characteristics whatsoever." He was not speaking to me, but rather to himself. After completing his analysis, he gingerly opened the letter. He quickly scanned it, then threw it at me in disgust. He picked up his pipe and made his way to the window. By all appearances, he was simply taking in the sights, but I knew that his mind was tearing itself to pieces. I picked up the letter, and began to read it.

_Dr. John Watson,_

_At this point, I am sure that you are very well aware of the disappearance of your good friend's brother. I write this to inform you that Mycroft is alive at this present moment, although I can't guarantee his safety for much longer. I give him credit, though. He is as stubborn and persistent as his younger brother. _

_If you would be so kind as to pass on the following information to Mr. Holmes, I would greatly appreciate it. Tell him that if he would like to see his brother, he is to meet me at the corner of __Victoria__ and __Waterloo__ tonight at __eleven o'clock__. He will find a warehouse on the corner, and I will meet him there. He is to come alone, although you may accompany him if you wish, Dr. Watson. Thank you for your time._

_Yours truly,_

_Professor James Moriarty_

I knew Holmes was seeing something in the letter that I was not, for I was relieved to hear the Mycroft was still alive. And I believed that if we were to see Mycroft, there was a chance that we could rescue him. But Holmes seemed to be in a worse state now than before the letter arrived.

"Holmes, what is troubling you now? We know that Mycroft is alive, and we might have the opportunity to rescue him." When he didn't respond, I became irritated. "Holmes, are you listening to me? We have the chance to rescue your-"

"I heard you Watson." His voice was as cold as ice when he spoke, and it sent chills down my spine. He continued to stare out the window as he spoke. "The only mind in all of England that I consider to be my equal is holding my brother captive and he has the upper hand, while I don't even have a single card. What about that is supposed to excite me?" He turned slowly and his eyes were filled with such a hateful anger that I could not hold his gaze. I knew that the hatred in his eyes was not meant for me. It was meant for Moriarty. But I could not hide the guilt that I felt over being excited to hear that Mycroft was alive. Holmes had been right. Moriarty had the upper hand, and we had nothing.


	6. Instructions

A/N Doyle owns all characters mentioned in this story...

* * *

The rest of the afternoon seemed to drag on for an eternity. Holmes locked himself in his room and I was left in the sitting room with nothing to occupy my time aside from thoughts of our meeting with Moriarty. I knew that Holmes was pacing as he fought to contrive some sort of a plan to outwit his adversary, and I found myself pacing, as well, but not for the same reason. I found myself pacing because I was afraid that something might happen that night that would be irreversible.

The hours finally passed, and the afternoon light gave way to night. Holmes came out of his room shortly after night fell. He walked into the center of the sitting room and looked about aimlessly. After a few minutes, he broke the silence. "I feel that it would be best if we took the train from Marylebone Station to Charing Cross Station and walked the remaining way to our destination. The train will eliminate any risks we would be taking by using a cab, and it will be quicker. There is a train that leaves at a quarter past ten. This will bring us to Charing Cross shortly after half past ten, which will leave us plenty of time to walk the remaining distance to the warehouse. I would like to leave here by ten of ten."

Although Holmes did not say it outright, I knew what he was feeling. He was allowing ample time for us to reach the train station, and then to reach the warehouse. He did not want to be rushed in any way, for if he were rushed, it would tamper with his coldly calculating mind.

It was shortly after eight o'clock when Holmes shared his plans with me. This left us roughly two hours before we were to catch our train. In order to pass the time, Holmes settled into his chair and picked up his violin. He began to play a tune that was unsettling, at best. It was a melody that had undertones of hopelessness, but there were moments when the music seemed to speak of a shimmer of hope. I had never heard the tune before, but I knew that he had picked it with the express purpose of putting his thoughts and emotions to music.

For a little over an hour and a half I listened to his music. Then he gracefully ended the tune and placed the violin in its case. After closing the case and putting the instrument away, he addressed me with further details regarding his plans for the evening. "I don't know what Moriarty has planned for us, but I would like to hope that I will be prepared for it, if not mentally, then at least physically. I am going to take a cane with me, and I need you to bring your revolver, a matchbook and your medical kit."

I did not question his request, I merely obliged. I walked into my room and took my revolver from my desk drawer. I then took my medical kit from the floor and placed it on the bed. I looked through it to make sure that it was properly stocked and that I was not missing anything. After assuring myself that my kit was in order, I proceeded to search for a matchbook. When I found the matchbook, I brought all three items into the sitting room and placed them on the table.

By the time I had found all of the necessary items, it was nearing the time for us to leave. Holmes had risen from his chair and was putting his coat on. He handed me my own, and then left to search for his cane. He had many canes that he used for various occasions, and I guessed that he was looking for one of his nicer, sturdier ones. Holmes was generally meticulous when it came to his dress. He always considered both appearance and function. He would want a cane that would be inconspicuous, yet strong enough that he could use it to defend his life.

While he searched, I put on my own coat and placed the revolver in my left pocket. I then placed the matchbook in my right pocket, and decided to carry my medical kit.

Holmes appeared shortly thereafter with a tall black cane, and together we headed off towards the train station.


	7. Confrontation

A/N All of these characters belong to Doyle...

* * *

The train ride was rather uneventful. Holmes sat beside me, unmoving, with his legs crossed, his fingers steepled, and his eyes closed. I tried hard to be as calm as he appeared, but I was unable to do so. I was anxious to see Mycroft and to know whether or not he was alright. The train ride was roughly thirty minutes, but it seemed to last for hours. I kept glancing at Holmes, searching for some sign of life, some sign of his awareness of our present situation, but I found none.

When the train stopped at Charing Cross Station, Holmes and I exited along with only a few other people. The train station was rather empty since it was a small, out of the way station, and not many people used it. The seclusion of the train station created a foreboding atmosphere, and I was rather eager to move on. So, we left the station rather quickly, and headed towards our destination.

Victoria Embankment ran along the border of the River Thames, and it intersected Waterloo Bridge roughly a mile to the northeast of Charing Cross Station. The area consisted mainly of businesses and a few shabby apartment complexes. The streets were dimly lit, and most of the businesses had closed for the night by the time we arrived, giving the impression that the streets and darkened buildings did not make up a thriving business district, but rather a barren wasteland. Silence enveloped the dark neighborhood and I could almost feel it creep in around us. It was an eerie silence, and it chilled me to the bone. All in all, it was an unpalatable place. I found myself pulling my collar up round my neck despite the pleasant warmth of the evening.

We arrived at Victoria and Waterloo shortly before eleven o'clock, and we surveyed the building where we were to confront Moriarty. The warehouse was dark, save for a single light, somewhere towards the back. The exterior was uninviting; the bricks were chipped and faded, and what few windows we could see were filthy and cracked, one of them missing entirely. The inky black of the London night took hold of the building a few feet over Holmes' height, and there was not much more to be seen.

I looked around one last time to survey the surroundings, and it hit me. There was not a soul present to witness our meeting. The few apartment buildings were completely dark and appeared vacant. Apparently the Professor knew what he was doing when he instructed us to meet him at this derelict depository.

Holmes' voice shattered the silence, making me jump in the process. "Well, Watson, it looks as though we are here." He looked me in the eye and I could see that he was nervous. "Whatever happens, I need you to trust me fully."

"As always, Holmes."

Before we entered the building, Holmes reached into his coat and pulled out a small lantern. I had not seen him take one from the flat, but it did not surprise me that he had thought to bring one. "Watson, may I borrow the matchbook?" I took the matchbook from my right pocket and handed it to him. He deftly lit the lantern and placed the remaining matches in his own pocket. He then headed into the warehouse, and I followed closely behind.

The interior of the warehouse was just as neglected as the exterior. There were boxes and crates scattered in random clusters on the floor. Most of these were broken, their contents long since stolen by petty thieves. The floor itself was covered with multiple layers of dust, dirt, and various other forms of filth. Once or twice I saw Holmes bend down and inspect the floor in front of him. The second time, he motioned me closer to him. "There are no shoeprints on the floor, meaning that there is another way in," he whispered. "We need to be very cautious in whatever we do. Moriarty probably has every angle covered regarding our possible courses of action." I nodded my acknowledgement and he continued on toward the solitary light in the back, taking in every corner and crate that made up the warehouse as he walked.

It was not long before we approached the source of the light. It seemed to be a relatively large office in the farthest corner of the building. We could see the light through a frosted window that had been cleaned recently. The window permitted us to see the light and vague shapes, but nothing more. Holmes approached the window and tried to discern what the blurry figures and shapes were, but his efforts were to no avail. He was left with no other option than to open the door.

When he neared the door, he handed me the lantern. "Watson," he whispered, "take this. I'm going to open the door, and I want both hands if I need them."

He turned towards the door, took in a deep breath, and opened it as if he were entering his own home, neither throwing it open nor opening it cautiously. I quickly followed him inside, expecting the worst. The first thing we saw was Moriarty leaning on an old desk, looking at a pocket watch. "I expected you seven minutes ago. What took you so long? No doubt you were analyzing the building, committing every detail to memory. No matter, whatever kept you is unimportant. All that matters is that you are here now, and are no doubt anxious to see the elder Holmes brother." I glanced at Holmes and saw that he had such a grip on his cane that his knuckles had turned white. Moriarty turned his attention away from us and toward a closed door to our left. "Lennox, would you be so kind as to bring the good Mycroft Holmes in here?"

We heard shuffling coming from behind the door, and within a few moments, the door was opened and Mycroft was brought in.

"Holy Jesus Christ…" I whispered under my breath.


	8. Consequences

Lennox all but dragged Mycroft, hands bound behind his back, to a chair beside Moriarty. The Mycroft that I remembered was a heavyset version of the Holmes that I knew so well. They had shared the same spark in their eyes, the same facial contour, and the same enthusiasm for life. The man before us was merely a passing shadow of his former self. Mycroft was no longer a heavy man. He had lost an unhealthy amount of weight for the short time that he had been missing. It appeared as though he hadn't ingested anything, food or water, since he had been abducted. He had lost so much weight, in fact, that his hollowed out frame reminded me of that of Sherlock. In addition to his weight loss, he had been beaten, severely. His face and arms were bruised and bleeding. His clothes were tattered and filthy, covered in dirt and blood. As he sat in the chair, he squinted, trying to hide his eyes from the assault of the bright light.

Holmes dropped his cane to the floor with a resounding crack when he saw his brother. He took a step toward Mycroft, but Moriarty motioned for him to stop, and he obeyed.

"What have you done to him, Moriarty?"

"Nothing that I wouldn't have done to you, Holmes. I merely roughed him up a bit. But you'll be proud to hear that he hasn't told me a thing yet."

Mycroft's eyes had finally adjusted, and although he seemed disoriented, he immediately recognized Holmes. Instantaneously, relief and anguish flashed across his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and raspy, yet full of urgency. "Sherlock, you must get out-"

His warning was cut short when Lennox delivered a swift blow to his abdomen. Holmes and I rushed forward toward Mycroft's side, but we were stopped by the sight of Moriarty with a pistol. We both took a few steps back, distancing ourselves from both Mycroft and Moriarty.

Holmes took a deep breath, letting it out between his teeth before his spoke. His voice was seething with anger and hatred, like a venomous snake pushed to its limits. "Moriarty, you've gone too far this time. Let him go."

"You see, that's where I have to disagree with you. I am not quite done dealing with Mycroft yet. As I mentioned before, he has yet to disclose the information that I need. But I believe that I have found a way to get what I want."

Holmes bent down to pick up his cane, but I spoke before he had a chance to respond. "Can't you see that the man is on Death's door? What more could you possibly do to him?"

"He's not going to do anything more to Mycroft, Watson." Holmes' voice was quiet, echoing with an oppressive realization.

"You are correct, Holmes." Moriarty replied with a smirk on his face as he aimed the pistol at Holmes' head. "Now Mycroft, I'm giving you one more chance. Tell me what I want to know, or the Great Detective will not live through the evening. Oh, and Dr. Watson, if you so much as reach for your revolver… Well let's just say that the consequences would be unpleasant for someone in this room."

The thought had indeed crossed my mind, but I knew that it would be futile to even try. Moriarty would not hesitate to wound or even kill Mycroft, Holmes, or myself.

As my mind feverishly sought a way of escape, my eyes came to rest on those of Mycroft. His left eye was almost swollen shut, and it looked as though his left cheekbone had been shattered. His right eye was bruised, but open, and with it he looked at Holmes. There was a tear rolling down the right side of his face as he weighed the consequences of his decision. On the one hand was the fate of England, on the other, was the fate of his brother. I saw Holmes nod faintly in agreement to Mycroft's thoughts, and Mycroft's shoulders dropped as he turned his head away. His voice was still raspy and quiet, but the urgency was no longer present. His voice carried with it the conviction of one who chooses the right path, even though it is not the easiest. "Do what you will. My answer remains the same."

"Very well then." There was no hesitation on the part of Moriarty. He lowered the weapon so that it aimed at Holmes' left arm, and he pulled the trigger.


	9. Wounded

A/N As much as I'd like to own these characters, they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

* * *

Holmes did not react as I expected. In my years as an Army surgeon I saw many gunshot wounds, and I even received one of my own. Most men, including myself, shouted or at least reacted in some verbal way to the pain. Holmes made no sound whatsoever. He only grabbed his arm, and stumbled back a step or two, until he came to lean against the wall. 

I was momentarily torn between lunging at Moriarty and tending to my friend's wound. But my sanity quickly returned, and I put down the lantern, reached for my medical kit and moved to Holmes' side. I expected Moriarty to oppose my actions, but he did not. For a reason unknown to me, he allowed me to tend to Holmes' wound.

I instructed Holmes to sit down, and when he did, I was able to get a better look at the injury. The bullet went entirely through his arm just above the elbow. It missed the bone, but did cause severe damage to the muscle and surrounding tissue. I cleaned the wound with some antiseptic from my kit, then wrapped his upper arm tightly so as to slow the bleeding.

It took all of me to hold back the anger I was feeling towards Moriarty and myself. I had been with Holmes on many adventures, and I had always been by his side or watching his back. I somehow felt that I was protecting him in some small way. He even once told me that he would not dream of stirring out without me if there was a prospect of danger (1). When I saw his wound, I felt as though I had let him down in some unforgivable manner.

After I finished, I told Holmes to remain seated. But he did not listen. He stood and vehemently addressed his shooter. "What do you hope to accomplish by killing me? Mycroft has his loyalties, and I know where they lie. He would see me die before he told you anything." His voice wavered slightly as he spoke, and I was unsure if it was due to the physical pain of his wound, or to the emotional pain of what he was saying.

Moriarty was enjoying the moment. "If it doesn't matter to him whether you live or die, what does it matter to me?" He raised the gun slowly, until it came to aim between Holmes' eyes.

I frantically looked to Mycroft. He was making eye contact with Holmes, and they were speaking volumes to each other while saying nothing. I could tell by the look in Mycroft's eye that his iron will was weakening. I felt that Holmes and I were close, but I knew that Mycroft and Holmes were closer, being brothers. Whatever mental anguish I was experiencing because of Holmes' situation, Mycroft was experiencing it ten times more.

I then looked to Holmes. His eyes had a glazed look to them due to the intense pain of his wound, but he seemed to be coherent. His eyes instructed Mycroft to remain silent, to share nothing. Holmes would rather die than see his country fall prey to an insidious evil. But I doubted that Mycroft could watch his brother die.

Moriarty, tired of waiting, cocked the pistol and prepared to pull the trigger. Holmes and Mycroft were still looking to each other for a solution until Mycroft broke Holmes' gaze and dropped his head, mumbling something unintelligible to Moriarty. "What was that Mycroft? I couldn't quite hear you."

Mycroft didn't move, but repeated what he had said, only slightly louder this time. His voice was saturated with defeat, his iron will shattered. "Queen Victoria is meeting with Lord Robert Cecil, President Loubet, and King Alfonso VIII in Saint-Lô, France, on August 19th at six o'clock."

"Mycroft, no…" Holmes collapsed against the wall, and slowly fell to the floor. His eyes had completely glazed over and he stared, looking at the wall, yet seeing nothing. Nothing mattered to him anymore. His world came crashing down as he realized that he had only been a pawn in Moriarty's master plan.

Moriarty laughed and lowered the weapon. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it? Don't we all feel better now? I have the information I need, Mycroft can go free, and Holmes gets to keep his life. But wait…" He placed his free hand on his chin as though he were seriously puzzled, when in fact, he was only mocking the three of us and our current situation. "Now that I think about it, none of you can go free. If I let you wander the streets without a care in the world, you have the opportunity to spoil my plans, and I don't want that."

As he spoke, he raised the loathsome weapon again, aiming it at Holmes. Within seconds, there was the metallic crack of a weapon being fired.

* * *

(1) The exact quote is, "No, my dear fellow, I don't think you can help me. There is no prospect of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you." This quote is found in The Adventure of the Norwood Builder. 


	10. Death

A/N Again, all of these characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the genius that he was.

A/N It seems that there are those of you who doubt the awesomeness of Mycroft Holmes. For those of you who don't see how Mycroft could be that important, I have dug up some quotes to enlighten you.

(_Holmes speaking to Watson regarding Mycroft_) "You are right in thinking that he is under the British governement. You would also be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he _is _the British government... Mycroft draws four hundred and fifty pounds a year, has no ambitions of any kind, will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the most indispensible man in the country... All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience."

In a sense, Mycroft can take facts from very different goverment divisions, "focus them all, and say offhand how each factor would affect the other." Mycroft was a very important man, and it is very possible that he would retain the knowledge that I have given him.

All of these quotes come from "The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans," in which top-secret government plans are stolen. Mycroft is the one who brings the case to Holmes' doorstep, literally.

* * *

Holmes had closed his eyes and flinched at the sound, fully expecting the impact of a bullet. When he felt no pain, he slowly opened his eyes to find that Moriarty's weapon was not the one that had fired.

I stood beside Holmes, smoking revolver in hand. There was no thought involved in my reaction; it was pure instinct. Moriarty was threatening to destroy everything that I held dear and he was going to come out of it scot-free. In a split-second, I had pulled the revolver from my left pocket and shot Moriarty in the chest.

His pistol fell to the floor as he staggered back into the desk. With one hand, he supported himself on the desk, and with the other, he tentatively reached up towards the wound. As he did so, blood quickly began to saturate his shirt. His face paled and his eyes were drained of their color. He looked at his chest, then up at me. His breathing became very rapid and his voice was shaky. "Good shot Dr. Watson, good shot indeed." He then slid down the desk, still bleeding heavily. By the time he reached the floor, he had closed his eyes and breathed his final breath. As I approached Moriarty's body to verify his death, a movement caught the corner of my eye. I quickly turned, but I was too late. Lennox had escaped using the door through which he had entered. I dashed through the door after him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Upon returning to the room, I found Holmes, his left arm not of much use, trying to untie Mycroft. I gently pulled him aside, placed the revolver on the desk, and proceeded to untie Mycroft.

When Mycroft was finally free, the first thing he did was envelope Holmes in a warm embrace. Holmes winced when Mycroft grazed his wound, but he did his best to return the gesture. The two stood there for several minutes, until Holmes pulled away and maneuvered his way towards me. Before I knew what was happening, Holmes reached around me with his right arm and pulled me into a warm embrace. "Thank you, Watson. You saved my life, and Mycroft's, as well. We are forever indebted to you." I returned the embrace, tears welling up in my eyes.

After some time had passed, Holmes pulled away. I was not surprised to see that there were tears in his eyes, as well. This was not the first time that his life had been threatened, but this was the first time that he had been utterly helpless.

A thick silence settled in over the room, and I took the moment to make sure that Moriarty was indeed dead. I bent down next to his body and checked for a pulse. When I could not find one, I announced that he was dead.

"He's finally gone."

"Yes, Watson, he is. Let us hope that there is never another like him." Holmes' voice was quiet, almost out of reverence for the only man who had bested him more than once.

The silence settled in once more as we all reflected on the events of the past week.

After a number of minutes passed, I broke the silence. "Mycroft, are you well enough to walk?"

"I do believe so, Dr. Watson."

"Then we had best be going. You need medical attention, as does Holmes. Although I am able to care for your injuries here, I feel it would be better if we were able to get you to a clinic or at least to some place cleaner than this. We should head back to Baker Street at the very least."

"Then Baker Street it is," Mycroft replied. Holmes nodded his approval, and the three of us slowly made our way out of the warehouse.

The night was still dark, but it was longer warm. The air had become cool and crisp, penetrating to the very core with every breath. It was a refreshing alternative to the oppressive atmosphere we had just left.

After a bit of searching, we found a cab. Holmes entered first, then Mycroft, then myself. I sat closest to the cabdriver, so I instructed him to head to Baker Street. When I returned my focus to my companions, I heard Holmes asking his brother how this surreal turn of events had come to pass. The Holmes brothers' thirst for answers and information overshadowed the pain of their injuries and by the time we had reached Baker Street, they had pieced the puzzle together in its entirety.

* * *

A/N I have plans for an epilogue. Let me know what you think.


	11. Epilogue part 1

A/N Holmes and company belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A/N This epilogue took a rather unexpected twist as I was writing, almost as if it had a mind of its own. So I decided to break it up into two separate chapters.

* * *

I heard Holmes before I saw him. He ran up the steps and then burst through the door, making about as much noise as he possibly could. He stopped short when he entered, pausing to smooth his coat and hair and to slow his breathing. Holmes was in good shape, so I knew that he had run a good while to be so out of breath, but here he was before me, stopping to smooth his appearance. It was quite comical. 

It was only on rare occasions that Holmes ever expended so much energy at one time, so I knew that something of the utmost importance must have taken place.

When he finally spoke, it was as if the man who entered had vanished and the Holmes I knew was back in place; the familiarity of the cold calculating mind replacing the strangeness of the exuberant spirit that had previously entered. There was no emotion on his face or in his voice. He had effectively removed all trace of excitement from his being. "Watson, I have here in my hand a telegram from Scotland Yard. It seems that they have apprehended Lennox, due in no small part to your description of the man. They found him in Portsmouth, preparing to board a ship to France."

Holmes had run to the flat to tell me something, and something this insignificant would not have affected him so greatly. I also knew that he had a love for the dramatic, so I knew he was keeping something from me. "Holmes, I'm sure that there's more than that. The capture of such a minor character would not be cause enough for you to be out of breath."

Holmes' countenance brightened as he laughed. "You know me too well, Watson. There is indeed more. This telegram from the Yard also informs me that Mycroft was forced to relocate the royal gathering. They had reason to believe that Lennox sent word to others regarding the location of the original meeting. And when Mycroft was considering a new location, he felt that there was no safer place to hold this meeting than here."

"Here?! As in right here in this very room?"

"Yes. The meeting is tonight at seven o'clock."

"My God Holmes, do you know what this means?"

There was laughter dancing in his eyes when he spoke. "Watson, did you really just ask me that?"

"Right… Well then…"

"I thought you might like to know in case you cared to clean this place a bit and to notify Mrs. Hudson. I'm going out again, but I will be back for the meeting."

"Holmes?! Don't you even care that the Queen of England will be gracing our doorstep in five hours?"

"Watson, it wouldn't be the first time that royalty has visited our humble flat." And with that, he was gone.

He was right when he said that this wouldn't be the first time that we'd entertained royalty at 221B Baker Street. He'd once had the King of Bohemia call on his services. And Holmes had not given the man any special treatment whatsoever. I hoped that he would at least have the good graces to be a gentleman in front of our guests.

In the course of four and a half hours, I had cleaned the flat from top to bottom and Mrs. Hudson was putting the finishing touches on a feast fit for royalty. I was just rearranging some books when Holmes returned. He was wearing a sharp black suit and top hat combination that accentuated his lean height.

I found myself laughing. "Well, Holmes, you clean up rather nicely."

"I'm glad you think so. The flat does, too."

"Thank you."

"I suggest that you go and change, my good man. Mycroft is on his way here with our guests as we speak."

I quickly replaced the books that I had been fiddling with, and made my way to my room. I picked out a black suit that I'd just had cleaned, and my best pair of shoes, and proceeded to make myself as presentable as possible.

Shortly before seven o'clock, our guests arrived. Holmes and I were at the door to greet them and invite them in. Queen Victoria, Lord Robert Cecil, President Loubet, and King Alfonso VIII all gathered in our flat that night to discuss international relations and various other political issues. Holmes was never one for politics, but he feigned an interest so he would not appear rude. Mycroft was very involved in the meeting, often clarifying things and making suggestions. And I just sat in my chair, overwhelmed by the fact that there was a royal gathering going on in our sitting room.

After a few hours of discussion, the conversation turned away from politics. It was Queen Victoria who turned the conversation. "I want to personally thank you, Mr. Holmes, and you, Dr. Watson, for your part in exposing Professor Moriarty's plot and in rescuing Mycroft." The fact that she addressed Mycroft so informally was not lost on even me. "All of us are very much indebted to the both of you for what you have done." As I scanned the faces of Lord Robert Cecil, President Loubet, and King Alfonso VIII, I noticed that they were all nodding their agreement to what the Queen had stated.

"Think nothing of it, Queen Victoria. Watson and I would have stopped at nothing to free Mycroft from the hand of Moriarty. In fact, it was Watson who saved the day this time."

"Is this true, Dr. Watson?"

I blushed. "It is, although it came at a very high price."

"I think all of us here agree when I say that we would like to hear the details of the encounter and how it came about. Dr. Watson, I've read your accounts of Mr. Holmes' cases and adventures; I would very much like to hear this one firsthand."

"It… It would be my pleasure, your majesty." I had heard Mycroft and Holmes discuss their respective sides of the story during the cab ride back to Baker Street on the fateful night, so I knew what had happened on Mycroft's side, as well as our own. "But before I start, I must ask you, Mycroft, is it alright with you if I tell the story? Or would you rather tell it yourself?"

"I've read your stories and I rather enjoyed them, and I imagine that your speech is just as effective. I would much rather you tell it. And beside, I am a rather poor story-teller."

"If you insist."


	12. Epilogue part 2

A/N I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N I'm dreadfully sorry that this chapter took so long in posting. There were many "road blocks," shall we say, along the way. My classes are occupying a great deal of my time and my computer crashed somewhere along the line, just to name a few. Again, I'm sorry that I took so long.

A/N To Chronos Keeper, I give you credit for doing your research, and I encourage you to continue on with your reading of the Canon. But, I have done my research, as well. I have read the Canon in its entirety, and I have many quotes to contradict the one you have presented. For example, this is my favorite: "All emotions, and love particularly, were abhorrent to his cold precise but admirably balanced mind... Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his." (A Scandal in Bohemia) I realize that this particular quote applies to strong emotions, but there are many others concerning his apparent lack of emotions. Thank you for your comment.

A/N One last author's note, I promise. I just wanted to remind you that this is told from the perspective of Watson, who, following in the tradition of the Canon, always quotes conversations that he's never heard...

* * *

It was twenty of eight and Mycroft was preparing to head to his lodgings at Pall Mall. He bade good-bye to his fellow members at the Diogenes Club, took his coat, and left. His walk was not a long one. His lodgings were just around the corner from the club. 

Mycroft was a man of routine. He lived his life according to a schedule: everything in its own time and place. But something was out of place when he arrived home. He opened the door to his flat, walked over to his sitting room, and sat down in his chair, as usual. The next thing he knew, there was a rag thrown over his face, and all went black shortly thereafter.

When he awoke, his head was throbbing. He tried to massage the ache, only to discover that his arms were tied to the chair in which he was sitting. He struggled against his restraints for a short while, then succumbed to the blackness that enveloped his vision.

This cycle repeated itself several times, until finally, Mycroft was no longer alone. When he opened his eyes, there was someone in the room with him.

"Good evening Mr. Holmes. I'm so glad you could join us."

"Where am I? And who the hell are you?"

"I see the chloroform has affected you a great deal more than expected. Allow me to introduce myself. I am James Moriarty. I've had the, uh, pleasure of meeting your brother."

"And what does this have to do with me?"

"That has nothing to do with you. You are here on your own merit. Need I remind you what you do for a living?"

"Ah, yes." At this point, Mycroft had become more or less aware of his situation. "I suppose you are looking for information. Well, let me save you the trouble and tell you right now that you will never receive any information from me. I am sworn to secrecy on all accounts."

"But surely there must be some way to get the information that I seek. Aren't you even the least bit curious as to what I want to know?"

"No."

"Well, you don't really have much say in the matter, do you? I want to know where the Queen will be meeting with the foreign leaders. I want to know the time, date, and place of the meeting. If you don't tell me now, you will tell me later. Don't underestimate me, Mycroft. Your brother did it, and it may cost him dearly in the near future."

"You say that Sherlock underestimated you, but I believe that it is you that have underestimated both him and myself. Even at this precise moment, Sherlock is searching the streets for any shred of a clue regarding my whereabouts. And I'm sure that he will find what he is looking for."

"I wouldn't get your hopes up. I'm many steps ahead of the Great Detective. I have covered my trail very well. If he finds anything, it will only be something that will throw him off of my scent. He will not arrive here until I want him here."

"Like Reichenbach, I presume? But this time you get to destroy both Holmes brothers? What could be better? I see two holes in your plan. I will not disclose any information to you, and Sherlock outwitted you once, and I guarantee you he will do it again."

"I am a patient man, Mycroft. I will get what I want in due time. And aren't you the least bit curious as to how I survived the Falls, since you mentioned it?"

"The thought has indeed crossed my mind, but I know that Sherlock survived. But then again, he did not go over the Falls as you did."

"You are correct. I would have taken the bloody soul down with me, but he evaded me at the last moment. We all learn from our mistakes, and I plan to succeed this time."

"So how exactly did you survive?"

"I visited Reichenbach Falls before my encounter with your brother. I memorized every in and out of those Falls, knowing where the water was deep enough for a fall, and where a fall would be fatal. I even jumped a few times the night before the encounter so that I would feel comfortable if something should go wrong. My diligence paid off. When I knew that my fall was imminent, I quickly calculated how and where I should fall. It appeared as though I had fallen to my death, when in fact I had leapt to safety. I knew that if I went over, there were others present who would finish the job for me. Apparently, they failed. But this time, failure is not an option."

"That's a very touching story, Moriarty, but I very highly doubt that you will succeed this go round."

The conversation continued until Moriarty asked Mycroft for the information one last time. Mycroft refused to disclose the requested information, and Moriarty abruptly stepped out of the room. A man entered shortly thereafter, and offered Mycroft one more chance to speak. Mycroft still refused to speak, and the man proceeded to beat him.

The beatings continued for days, increasing in intensity with the passing of time. Mycroft was denied food, water, sleep, and everything else imaginable. But somehow he managed to maintain his iron will, and Moriarty was unable to retrieve the information he sought.

After roughly seven days, Moriarty was ready to play his final card. He sent a letter to Holmes and I, inviting us to see Mycroft.

------------------------------------------------

I continued my story, informing the Queen and company of our encounter with Moriarty, his subsequent death, and all of the details in between. I won't bother retelling every detail here, since I have already told it once.

Everyone present found the story to be intriguing, but we decided that it should not be relayed to the public. The Queen decided that we did not need to alarm the people unnecessarily and such. After a few more hours of friendly conversation, our visitors dismissed themselves. Many of them had a long journey ahead of them, and they did not wish to intrude upon us. Mycroft left with the Queen, escorting her back to the palace.

This left Holmes and I alone. I took the chance to observe my friend. His left arm was in a loose sling, due to the gunshot wound, and although he could use it, he wanted it to heal fully before he took any chances and damaged it further. He had gained some weight due solely to the fact that he had been cooped up in the flat while his arm healed, and Mrs. Hudson forced him to eat at least two meals a day. What bothered me most about his appearance was the look in his eyes. His gray eyes seemed to have glazed over and I was struck by the absolute lack of life portrayed in them. As I looked at his eyes, I realized that the dull look I saw was due to a tiredness deep within his soul. I was about to say something to him, but before I could, he stirred.

He rose and turned his back to me as he spoke. "As you have already observed, my dear Watson, this last case has weighed heavily upon me. I know that Moriarty is dead, but there will soon be others to take his place. There will always be someone, somewhere who has his mind set on bringing down the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes. What will I do when I stumble and that someone is there waiting for me? You can't always be by my side, Watson, and neither can Mycroft. Or worse yet, what would happen if that someone chose not to take me down directly, but rather indirectly, through you? I would rather die than know that I was in some way responsible for any injury that befell you." At this point, he fell into a chair by the mantel-piece with its back facing me. He sat there in silence until I spoke.

"Holmes, I had no idea this was weighing on you so. I want you to know that if any harm ever came to me, I would never hold you responsible. I count it an honor to have been by your side all these years and I would change nothing."

He responded without turning his head, and although I could not see him, I knew he had steepled his fingers. "You surprise me Watson. I expected you to argue my perspective by saying that you would never fall prey to something like that of which I speak. But rather, you accept my perspective and relieve me of any responsibility that I might have taken upon myself. For your insight, I am truly grateful. I seem to have underestimated you."

We sat together in a silence that befit two intimate friends. I pondered what he said regarding my health and safety. I had always known that I was putting myself in harm's way whenever I traveled with him, but I never expected him to feel concern for me. And I never expected him to voice something so emotional.

"Holmes, the future that you speak of is rather dark and depressing. You speak as though very ground on which you stand is shifting. You say that even I cannot be counted upon as a constant. What else is there?"

"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it. ()

* * *

() The last line of this story is a quote that is the very last line of "The Sign of Four," written by Doyle, himself. 


End file.
